Wednesday, October 8, 2014

To ski the Wasatch beneath wind threaded skies, Or to go fencing, my blades and
gear well packed Like the young man who set out
to go hawking

a thousand years ago.

But I am old
and tangled in memory, I have skied so many times. Some of those who skied with me are gone, The one who taught me to ski
with as much beauty as I could find Is gone.

So setting
out is fraught with the ambivalence of memory.

Maybe it was
for the young man, too, Who came across the battle of
Maldon, And so that he could take up
arms, set his beloved hawk on the wing To fly into the dark forest Knowing he should never see him again.

Setting out,
I remember you Your green eyes, knowing, brave,
always true And I remember that terrible
night when I let you go, As if releasing you to fly from
my wrist, Away into memory.